


Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

by blue_jack



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental sugar daddy Peter Parker, Bottom!Wade Wilson, I haven't decided if there's going to be daddy kink yet, M/M, Probably not but I'm putting the warning out there just in case, Silly, Top!Peter Parker, billionaire!Peter Parker, i'll add tags as we go on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2017-03-02
Packaged: 2018-09-03 07:30:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8703223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_jack/pseuds/blue_jack
Summary: It started off innocently enough.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There's just so much daddy!Wade out there; I had to. ;)
> 
> Title from the song "I Can't Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch)."

It started off innocently enough.

“What the hell, Wade?” Peter asked, staring at what could only politely called an absolute mess. Sure, it’d been almost a year since the last time Wade had invited him over, but Peter distinctly remembered there being things like a huge television and all sorts of electronic toys and a car on the ceiling at his last place. 

The new pad was apparently a dingy apartment boasting a tiny tv, a battered couch, and an odor that Peter wasn’t sure he wanted to know the source of.

“What?” Wade said, pushing past him and looking around. “Oh, sorry,” he said, before moving a few old pizza boxes off the couch and dumping them in the corner. “I meant to clean, but I _just_ got my nails done, and I didn’t want to ruin the color. Tell me you understand, Darling?” 

“What happened to all your _stuff_?” Peter asked, taking in the bare walls that were decorated in paint chips and despair, and was it his imagination, or was the takeout box on the counter moving?

“What stu—ohhh, that’s right. The last time you were in my boudoir, the place was all pimped out. Yeah, well, soon after you destroyed all my most beloved possessions—”

“I did not!”

It was amazing how expressive Wade’s mask could be.

“You can’t blame me for the fact that you blew up your own place!” he said, folding his arms across his chest.

“If you hadn’t lead Mummy-face to me, I wouldn’t have _had_ to blow up my own place! I could’ve blown up somebody else’s place instead!”

Annnnd that was why Peter hadn’t been to Wade’s in nearly a year. After everything that had happened with Patient Zero and Itsy Bitsy, all the progress that they’d made working together had pretty much stalled and died. 

If Wade hadn’t fought for their friendship—and Peter could admit, it’d all been Wade—then that would’ve been it. End of story. 

But Wade _had_ fought, had pled his case whenever he was in town until Peter had finally believed and (grudgingly) forgiven him for trying to become friends with him in order to get to Peter Parker and then killing him. Twice. Wade had continued to seek Peter out to team up at first, and when Peter couldn’t stand the nagging anymore and agreed, had immediately started dropping hints that they should hang out again with all the delicacy of an elephant trying to drink tea. It’d taken several more months of Peter making sure Wade was really, _really_ sincere this time—it probably wouldn’t have actually taken that long, but Wade had taken an international job that had lasted four months. In the interim, it’d been kind of a slap in the face when Peter realized that he’d missed him—but here they were. 

And sure, there were still rough edges and apparently mentioning anything that had happened a year ago brought up some sore feelings, but Peter liked Wade. A lot. Respected him too, and had grown to trust him even more—he’d even revealed his true identity, and the horrified look on Wade’s face after the big reveal had made Peter’s chest ache weirdly for a solid month any time he thought about it—and this? All of this? Wasn’t worth arguing about. Wade had thought he’d been doing the right thing in taking Peter Parker out. He, on the other hand, had been angry—justifiably so maybe—but he’d done things as a result of that anger that he wasn’t proud of.

Which is why he sighed and said, “You’re right. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have lead them here. I’m sorry.”

He could tell from the way Wade’s mask moved that he’d opened and closed his mouth a few times as he tried to figure out if Peter was sincere or not, and it made him smile. “But why didn’t you replace it all?” Peter asked.

Wade cleared his throat. “Well, funny enough, when you divorce the Queen of the Underworld, she gets a little testy and takes all your worldly possessions and your testes as a souvenir. Don’t worry, they grew back,” he said, as Peter’s eyes automatically dropped down. Wade gave his hips a little wiggle. “Wanna see?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “I’ll pass, thanks.”

“Well, don’t say I never offered,” Wade said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

Wade shrugged then plopped down on the couch, arms across the back and legs spread wide, invitation obvious in every line. 

It was all Peter could do not to roll his eyes again. Instead, he surveyed the room. The box _was_ moving. He was sure of it. 

He’d known Wade and Shiklah had gotten divorced right after everything had gone done with Itsy Bitsy, but he hadn’t realized how much she’d taken in the settlement—although he’d bet Wade hadn’t fought too hard for an equal share. Wade tended to be almost too giving to the people he cared for. 

Still, Wade deserved better. Peter remembered Wade saying how much he loved his bachelor’s pad, and maybe it would’ve all been lost in the divorce anyway, but Peter couldn’t stem the rising guilt now that he knew how Deadpool was living, nor did he try.

“Let me make it up to you,” he said impulsively.

Wade tilted his head. “Interesting. With blow—?”

“I will hurt you if you finish that sentence. I mean let me clean this place up a bit, get rid of the night of the living fungus that’s no doubt inhabiting your refrigerator and the mice in your couch maybe; buy you a TV that doesn’t have a crack down the side.”

“I was going to say ‘blowtorches,’ because who doesn’t like blowtorches, but obviously your mind went somewhere different, Petey-Pie,” Wade said, shaking his head sadly. “As for the rest of it, ha, joke’s on you! I don’t have a refrigerator! Also, I think the crack adds a little je ne sais quoi to the tv-watching experience.”

“Well, excuse me for being mislead. You’re a walking dirty joke just waiting to happen. And what about the mice?”

“There aren’t any mice.”

“Yes, Wade, there are. I can hear them squeaking.”

“That’s the springs.”

“I’m pretty sure the springs in that couch died a long time ago.”

“No, there’s one trying to get to third base with me right now,” Wade said, squirming. “Normally, I’d expect at least dinner and dancing first, but it knows how to treat a girl right—”

“Oh my gosh, just say yes.”

“But it’s so sudden,” Wade breathed, holding his hands near his cheek and no doubt fluttering his eyelashes. “What will my family say?”

“‘How much do we owe you?’ probably.” The desire to roll his eyes was there again, but then, when he hung out with Wade, it was always there. “There’s no ‘off’ button on you, is there?”

“Why would you want to turn off _this_?” Wade saying, waving at what Peter assumed was supposed to be all his glory. “But why does it matter anyway? These aren’t the worst conditions I’ve ever lived in.”

“Sure, but you don’t _need_ to live like this anymore,” Peter said, which was really the root of the problem. Wade was working with SHIELD. He _had_ to have enough money to buy something better, even if he couldn’t shell out the big bucks to recreate his bachelor’s pad from before. For some reason, though, he wasn’t doing anything about it. Maybe it was sentimentality. If it couldn’t be as good as his last one, he didn’t want anything at all. Maybe he just liked slumming it. Which seemed preposterous, but when had Peter ever really understood what was going through Wade’s head? Whatever the reason, it made Peter cringe to look around, and if Wade wasn’t going to do something about it, then Peter was.

Wade looked at him for a moment then shrugged. “Alright. Whatever floats your boat, Snookums. A bazillionaire wants to buy me a couple of nice things? Who am I to refuse?”

“Exactly,” Peter said and started making phone calls.


	2. Chapter 2

The initial idea was to put Wade in a hotel, because Peter couldn’t exactly kick him out on the street just so he could renovate his apartment. It seemed counter-intuitive. He even went so far as to ask his assistant to make reservations at someplace nice—and then he actually thought about it.

Wade at a hotel. Bored.

Loud television in the wee hours of the morning; bullet holes in the walls; explosives—

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

He supposed he could always send Wade out of town, spring for a vacation or something … but he didn’t want Wade to think he was forcing him out of New York, that all of this was a plot to get Wade as far away as possible. It wasn’t the type of thing Peter would have to worry about with any of his other friends, but the two times he’d joked about kicking Wade to the curb or being happy he was going out on an assignment, Wade had actually seemed upset, even though he’d tried to cover it with meaningless chatter. Peter had stopped the jokes as a result, but it was just going to take time for the both of them to feel settled with their friendship, and Peter didn’t want to risk hurting Wade’s feelings when the whole point was to do something nice.

So then the next option was to put him up at the Baxter Building with him, since Wade could be far enough away from his own room that loud noises wouldn’t be a problem, and his place could take a little rough treatment without too much trouble.

It’d mean a lot more face-to-face interaction, because he doubted Wade would quietly stay in his room the whole time, nor would he expect him to. Besides, Peter could admit to himself that he’d been feeling a little … not lonely, but more _alone_ than he was used to recently, and it’d be nice to have the company for a while. What was the worst that—

Haha. Oh no. He wasn’t even going there. Parker Luck would just strike him down.

No, no, it’d be fine. And if it wasn’t, he’d just go on a business trip. There were always meetings he needed to attend for the company, and he could rearrange his schedule some if necessary. Besides, his team had told him they thought they could get everything done in two weeks, so it shouldn’t be horrible. Bad potentially, yes, but not horrible.

Now he just had to see if Wade was okay with it.

\-----

“You’re asking me … to live with you?” Wade asked, and Peter had never seen his mask so still.

“Only for like two weeks.”

“Two weeks with you.”

“Um, yes. I mean, I’ll be in and out,” he said, wondering if he should start rescheduling already, “but otherwise, we’d be roomies.”

Wade’s head twitched to the side. It was a little disconcerting.

“So you want to share a room?”

“What? No! I mean, figuratively we’d be roomies. We’d be, you know, apartment mates.”

“Apartment. _Mates_ ,” Wade said, putting way too much emphasis on the last word in what could totally be taken in a creepy way, and okay, bad idea, baaad—

“Ha, just messing with you, Petey!” Wade said, slapping Peter on the back, hard enough that Peter let out a little “oomph!” “I can see it now!” he said, wrapping one arm around Peter’s shoulders and putting his other hand in the air in front of them. “Staying up late to talk about boys, painting each other’s nails, toasting marshmallows on the fire—”

“These are supervised fires in the fireplace, right?” he asked, rubbing his back and and glaring half-heartedly at Wade.

“Of course!” Wade said in a voice that told Peter he’d been thinking no such thing.

“Wade,” he said, shifting a little so he could look him in the eye lenses, “you know—”

“Say no more! I’m way ahead of you. I’ll be on my best behavior the whole two weeks! There will be no shooting or blood in Chez Parker, no guests that aren’t pre-approved, no booms or bams or anything louder than a boop! I’ll be a model guest!” he said, smiling wider and wider the longer Peter looked at him. “You won’t even know I’m there!”

Somehow, Peter really, really doubted it, but now that he’d made his decision, he just wanted to get the ball rolling.

“Alright,” he said, pulling away, feeling a lot cooler without Wade pressed against his side. Wade was like a furnace. “Why don’t you pack whatever you’ll need, and we’ll get going.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Wade said, giving him a jaunty salute and then heading to what Peter supposed was his bedroom. 

As soon as the door closed, Wade let loose the loudest squeal that had ever had the misfortune of nearly popping Peter’s ear drums, and he nearly jumped a foot in the air in response. 

“Be cool, man,” he heard Wade muttering. “Just be cool.”

Peter shook his head, but he was smiling—wryly, to be sure, but smiling nonetheless. Wade’s dramatics were pretty hilarious. Although he’d never admit that out loud.

He didn’t know how long Wade would be, so he looked at the couch, decided he didn’t want to risk angering whatever animal(s) were hiding in there, and started scrolling through his emails while standing. 

Five minutes later, the door slammed open, and Wade said, “The _fun_ has arrived!”

Peter blinked at the two bags in his arms. “Okay, so that is a horrifyingly large bag of guns.”

“I’m like a boyscout that way,” Wade said, lifting the bag slightly and shaking it. “I believe in always being prepared.”

“For the zombie apocalypse?” Peter asked, but he knew Wade loaded everything with rubber bullets, so he wasn’t going to complain. Too much. “But why is your bag of clothes so small?”

It looked like a kid’s backpack—strike that, it _was_ a kid’s backpack, Hello Kitty to be precise, and there was a uniform and something silky that Peter wasn’t going to look too closely at spilling out the top.

Wade looked down at his bag. “‘He who will not economize will have to agonize,’” he said.

Peter blinked. “Is that a quote?”

“Confucius,” Wade said, nodding sagely.

“Yeah, alright, but there’s economizing, and there’s having no clothes, Wade.”

“‘To live a pure unselfish life, one must count nothing as one’s own in the midst of abundance.’”

“What?”

“Buddha.”

“Wade—”

“‘If everyone demanded peace instead of another television set—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Peter said, not wanting to get another life lesson in twenty words or less. And then the thought struck him—what if the reason Wade was avoiding the question was because Wade didn’t _have_ any other clothes?

That couldn’t be possible, right? Like, Shiklah wouldn’t have taken—no, that was ridiculous. No one’s ex-wife was that petty. 

Maybe, though, Wade just didn’t want to wear anything except his costume (and once again, not thinking about the slinky thing) in front of Peter. Maybe he didn’t feel comfortable in anything that didn’t cover him from head to toe. If so, that was just depressing, especially since Peter hadn’t freaked out when he’d seen Wade in nothing but his mask and boxers back when they’d danced for the Valkyries. But maybe their friendship had deteriorated to the point where Wade wasn’t sure, and if so, then Peter would just have to prove to Wade that the scars didn’t bother him.

“You know, Wade, while _you_ may think there are enough pairs of underwear in there for two weeks—

“I don’t wear—”

“Eh, eh, eh, eh! Not listening!” Peter said, covering his ears. “Anyway, first order of business is to get you some lounging around clothes. And more underwear. I can’t relax if you’re in costume. It makes me high-strung. “

“That was the best you could come up with? High-strung?” Wade said when Peter cautiously lowered his hands.

“You spend every day staring at figures and trying to pay attention during endless meeting after meeting, and then you’ll get to criticize. Until then, leave me my delusions of snappy witticisms.” 

Wade put one hand to his chest while lifting the other one in the air, his voice solemn as he said, “Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive.”

Peter shook his head. “You just couldn't resist, could you? And you said ‘high-strung’ was bad. Whatever. Get in the car, loser. We’re going shopping.”


	3. Chapter 3

“No guns,” Peter said as they sat in the parking garage. 

“Three guns,” Wade countered, as if he were actually offering a reasonable compromise.

“ _No guns_ ,” Peter said, and he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. What was his life? “And no blades either. Of any kind.”

“No guns _or_ blades?” Wade looked aghast at the very idea. “I abjure you, blasphemer—”

“Wade, I can’t take you into a store with weapons! We’d get arrested.”

“Okay, one, that is a really confusing sentence. You can’t take me, a person who has weapons, into a store; or you can’t take me into a store that sells weapons. Which one is it? And two, New York is a concealed carry state. So technically, you can do either one.”

Peter prayed for patience. “It was the first, and yes, we would get arrested, because most of your weapons are in plain sight.”

“Well, if you want to get technical, the law is actually extremely vague on open carry—”

They spent seventeen minutes in the car arguing. Seventeen minutes. Peter kept track. They finally settled on no guns, four knives. Four _small_ knives. He counted it as a victory, although considering how long it’d taken to reach a compromise, it probably was a Pyrrhic one at best. Whatever. At least they’d gotten out of the damn car.

The nice thing about New York City was that no one really cared that Wade was in full costume. Oh, they noticed, and Peter swore one person paid Wade five bucks to take a picture with her, but no one freaked out or stared too long or did anything that made Peter want to hightail it back to the garage, so he just got to relax and, as Wade informed him, “watch the magic happen.”

“So the magic is a hoodie and jeans?’ Peter asked dubiously as Wade came out of the dressing room. Not that they weren’t nice-looking, if baggy. But considering how much time Wade had spent roaming the store, he’d been expecting … he didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Something bedazzled maybe, who knew.

“Awww, you don’t like it?” Wade asked, shoulders hunching, and Peter knew he was faking it—he could see the pout through Wade’s mask, it was so exaggerated—but he still felt bad about it. A little. It was a hoodie after all. But they were bonding, and he was trying to be nice.

“It’s fine—I mean it looks good!” Peter said as Wade hunched up some more. “Totally brings out your, um, shoulders.” It did actually. Wade had really broad shoulders. “But it’s late summer. Aren’t you going to be hot?”

“How dare you,” Wade said, straightening to his full height. “I’m always hot.” 

And there was the eye-rolling again. “Hott _er_ then.”

“You’re so critical.” Wade put his hands on his hips and told the fitting room attendant, who’d been hanging back, “If it’s not spandex or leather, he always complains.”

“Spandex, leather, or lace,” Peter corrected, hoping he wasn’t blushing, but refusing to be outdone in front of an audience.

“Why, Pookie-bear,” Wade said, clasping his hands next to his cheek. “If I’d—”

“Oh, shut up and take your clothes off,” Peter said, shoving him back into the changing room. “If that’s the best you could do, I’m going to go look. Wait there.”

“I just love it when you’re masterful,” Wade sighed, and Peter grabbed a shirt off the return rack and threw it in his face.

Peter didn’t actually enjoy shopping for himself. But it was weirdly fun when he was doing it for Wade. He asked the attendant—Sara—for help, and between the two of them, they got piles of T-shirts and shorts, a few more jeans, some boxers as promised, and a couple of pairs of sandals.

Most of which Wade threw back out. 

“Too tight.”

“Too loose.”

“Too scratchy.”

“Too bootylicious. I might be packing in my trunk,” Wade said, shaking his ass at Peter, “but I’m not that packing.”

“Too ugly.”

“Not ugly enough.”

“What are you even talking about?” Peter demanded, because he could’ve believed the rest of it, but not ugly enough? That didn’t even make sense.

Wade stepped out in what, okay, was actually a horror to the eyes, and Peter had no idea how it’d gotten into the pile, but there it was.

“This shirt is fugly,” Wade declared, showing off psychedelic orange and brown and blue stripes and swirls and what looked like paisley from where Peter was sitting. “But if the designer had just added a little more … something … they could’ve transported this from the point of absurdity into divine inspiration.”

“By permanently blinding people?”

Wade sniffed. “It would’ve been _art_ , you Philistine.”

“If you’re trying to be part of a disco montage maybe. Alternatively, you could be aiming to be front and center on a gaudy pimp-daddy tapestry, because all you’re missing is a blue fur coat and a leopard-print hat. Don’t even think about it,” Peter said when Wade opened his mouth.

Wade looked in the mirror before sighing sadly. “You’re right. I don’t have nearly enough bling to carry it off.”

“Yes, that’s the issue here. Okay, Wade, we’ve been shopping for over an hour and all you’ve decided on so far is a hoodie, one pair of jeans, and a pair of flipflops. What gives?”

Wade crossed his shiny arms over his shiny chest. It was a little mesmerizing, truth be told. “I told you, none of them worked.”

“None of them,” Peter said skeptically.

“No.”

“We basically went through the whole store.”

Wade turned his nose up. “You can’t force perfection.”

Peter really … didn’t know how to respond to that, so after a long moment of judging his life and his life choices, he sighed and said, “Alright. When it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. Let’s get going.”

He didn’t imagine the sudden relief in Wade’s posture, even if it was gone a second later, and he was so stupid. Wade had only modeled his outfits three times, and all three times had been when the clothes covered his whole body. Peter had thought he’d been giving him enough privacy since Wade was securely behind a closed door in the changing room, but obviously it hadn’t been enough—hopefully because Sara was nearby and not because of Peter. Still, he needed to do better, and he had an idea on how to make that happen. 

He waited until Wade was changing to make the phone call, finishing just as he could hear the lock slide in the door.

“Ready?” he asked and went with Wade to the register.

As was the theme of the day, they argued over who was going to pay.

“I’m the one who said we were going shopping, so I’m the one who should pay,” Peter said, pulling out his black card.

“And I was the one who agreed to go, which means I should pay for myself. This should cover it,” Wade said to Sara, trying to pass over a crumple of twenties, which, no.

“Haven’t you ever heard of a wallet?” Peter asked, and he didn’t really like to use his strength in public, but he wasn’t above hip-checking Wade to get in front of him. “No one wants your sweaty money.”

Wade barely managed to keep from barrelling into a rack of earrings. He straightened. “Did you just—?”

“Oh, was that me?” Peter asked, grinning widely as Sara took his card. “Whoops. Sorry about that. I tripped.”

“Laugh all you want, Chuckles,” Wade said, shoving the money in a pouch and then cracking his knuckles. “I’ll show you tripping.”

“Now, Wade,” Peter said, and he should probably stop smiling, but he couldn’t help himself. “Don’t be like that. It was an accident.”

“Your face is an accident. But I’m going to make it better,” Wade said, swinging his arm around, and it was slow and obvious, and Peter kind of wanted to giggle. He manfully resisted.

He leaned back, letting Wade’s fist just miss him—and then watched as Wade sped up, still turning in the direction of his swing, and plucked Peter’s card from Sara’s hand. 

“You fucker,” he said, outraged.

“Loohoohoooser!” Wade said, dancing out of reach and waggling his card in front of him.

“You know,” Peter said, putting his sunglasses on the counter, “this means war.” 

A few seconds later, he had his hand in Wade’s face, and Wade’s elbow was digging into his stomach, and they both had the beginnings of bruises all up and down their shins and sides, and Wade was holding his card above his head, the asshole, when Sara said, “Er, here’s your receipt, Mr. Parker.” 

They froze.

“Ha!” Peter yelled, disentangling himself. “HA!”

“I can’t believe you already ran the card,” Wade said to Sara in a betrayed voice, and she shrugged. 

“Sorry?”

“Yussss!” Peter said, raising his fists in the air.

“Yeah, well you can carry the bag, since they’re your purchases,” Wade said snootily, somehow already halfway to the door, and what?

“That’s not how that’s supposed to work! Wade? Wade! That jerk,” he said, grabbing his sunglasses and the clothes.

Sara laughed. “You guys are cute.”

“Uhhh … thanks,” he said, his face flushing, and great. He always seemed to make a public spectacle of himself when he was with Wade. He waved awkwardly at her and headed for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like short chapters. They're so easy to write.
> 
> So fyi, I'm moving over the holidays, and I have to update another fic, so it's probably going to be January before this gets updated next. Happy Holidays, guys! See you next year!


	4. Chapter 4

Peter let Wade choose where they went for lunch. He knew it was going to mean tacos—

Yup, yup, all the tacos. It was a slaughter of tacos, hot sauce flying everywhere.

“I think I’m going to be sick,” Peter said, collapsing back into his chair.

“Weak,” Wade said, frowning at him, a limp piece of lettuce hanging from his mouth. “You’ve only eaten like, fifteen tacos. What’s wrong with you?”

“Excuse me. Not all of us eat like we’re trying to compete for a spot in the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest. Fifteen is apparently my limit. You’ve got a little …” Peter gestured vaguely at his face.

“I would never. They dip their buns in water to make them easier to eat. It’s a travesty of everything good in life. Did I get it?” Wade asked, wiping his face with his arm, smearing guacamole everywhere. 

“Er … yes.” The lettuce _was_ gone after all. Or at least, it’d been covered by guacamole so Peter couldn’t see it anymore. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. 

“Sweet,” Wade said, grinning, and there was food all over him and Peter just—

“Oh my gosh,” he said, smiling fit to burst. “You are a mess. An absolute mess. Do you even know how to adult?” He started pulling napkins out of the dispenser, one after another, but he wasn’t sure there were enough napkins in the entire restaurant to clean up Wade’s face and hands. And arms apparently. And probably his lap too.

Wade started chewing with his mouth open, loud and obnoxiously. “Do I know how to adult? Do _you_ know how to grammar?”

“At least I know how to say it and not spray it,” Peter said, dodging who knew what, and poured some of his water on his napkin pile. “Lean forward.”

“Why?” Wade asked suspiciously, even as he did it.

“Cause I’m the one who has to look at you,” Peter said, wiping at Wade’s cheeks, his mouth, getting what he could, which really wasn’t much, because the napkins were more for delicate patting than all-out food warfare, and now the guacamole was smeared over Wade’s face. Time for a change of plans, Peter thought, before making one pass with the napkins and then dropping the dirty ones onto the table instead of trying to reuse them.

“You know, I can do that myself.” Wade tilted his head to make it easier for Peter to reach a spot on his jaw. 

“Okay,” Peter said, extending his considerably smaller napkin wad for Wade to take.

“But I wouldn’t want to hog all the fun,” Wade oh so generously said, and then offered up his face again for more cleaning.

“In a world of takers, Wade, you are a giver,” Peter told him, his voice conveying how suitably impressed he was.

“Well, it kinda depends on the sit-u-ass-shun,” Wade murmured, eyebrows waggling under his mask. “If you know what I mean.”

“Uh huh,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.

“I mean, giving is all well and good, don’t get me wrong. But there ain’t nothing quite like taking a co—”

Peter shoved half a chimichanga into Wade’s mouth. ”Just eat your food, you degenerate.”

“Why, Petey,” Wade said, a long, long minute later, after he’d gobbled the chimichanga down in a truly mind-boggling impression of a heron with a fish. “If I’d known you wanted to stuff me full of your all beef—”

“I can and will hurt you.”

“Mmm, Daddy, talk dirty to me some more,” Wade said, turning in his chair to kick his legs up flirtatiously and nearly taking out another customer in the process.

Peter didn’t mean to laugh, but it was just too ridiculous, and he covered his mouth guiltily afterward.

“I am so sorry about him,” he said to Wade’s latest victim, but the apology was a little ruined by the way a smile kept trying to escape.

The guy glared at both of them, did a double-take when he realized Wade was in costume, and then left without saying anything. It was probably for the best.

“What is wrong with you?” Peter asked, shaking his head.

“So many things,” Wade said, eating another taco, and somehow, he’d gotten even _more_ guacamole on his face, this time on his chin. It was a veritable green goatee. If Peter hadn’t known better, he would’ve said Wade had literally dipped his chin into the guacamole bowl, but why the hell would he do that?

“Is guacamole your arch-nemesis?” he asked in exasperation and started making napkin pile number two. “How does a person even get that much guacamole on their face? You do realize you have to open your mouth when the food gets close, don’t you?”

Wade shrugged. “They say avocado is good for the skin. Maybe I got carried away. Maybe I didn’t get carried away enough.” He started patting his cheek, which still had a faint streak of green on it, as if he were considering whether it needed another coating.

“Seriously, you are a child,” Peter said, and got back to work, sacrificing several napkins to take off the majority of the guacamole stalactite with one swipe. He then rested the fingers of his left hand against Wade’s chin so Peter could tilt his head the way he wanted it as he focused on the fine detail. There was guacamole in the dips and grooves of Wade’s scars, barely noticeable, but Peter had had dirt and who knew what stuck under the spandex before, and it got uncomfortable, fast, grinding against skin with each twitch of the mask. Wade had confided before that he lived with a lot of constant pain, and Peter wasn’t going to contribute to that if he could help it at all—well, besides the occasional jab with the elbow or whatnot, but those were basically signs of affection, and Wade always started it. He seemed to like nothing more than a good tussle every now and then, and who was Peter to deny him? 

For this, however, Peter made sure to keep his hands steady and gentle, stroking slowly over Wade’s face. His skin was a lot softer than Peter had been expecting, the texture a little strange, but not unpleasantly so, just a little different. He was also warm, his temperature slightly elevated compared to Peter’s, which was interesting since Peter tended to always be hotter than the people he was with—an effect of the bite, probably. The heat was kind of … nice actually, and Peter let more of hand rest against Wade’s face, until he was almost cradling Wade’s jaw as he cleaned him. Only when Peter was satisfied did he let him go. “There, all set.”

“Wade?” Peter said, after a minute of Wade just sitting there, still exactly as Peter had left him.

“Hmm?” Wade sounded a little distracted, dreamy almost, and Peter wondered if he’d fallen asleep sitting down. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“You finished eating?”

“Mmm,” Wade hummed and then seemed to snap out of it, giving himself a little shake. “Yeah,” he said, his voice raspy. “Yeah. Let’s, um, get going.” 

Wade pushed away from the table with a loud screech, shoving trash onto his tray, as well as a couple of uneaten tacos, which was unlike him. They’d already paid when they’d ordered—Wade insisting it was his turn and that he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer; Peter knew something about pride, so he’d given in, even while making plans to arrange for all their meals while Wade was living with him—so they were out of the restaurant quickly. 

Peter wondered at Wade’s hasty exit as they walked in silence to the car, the pace a little faster than normal.

Maybe Wade was embarrassed by the touching? But he hadn’t seemed embarrassed when it’d been happening. If he’d been uncomfortable, Peter would’ve stopped immediately. If anything, Wade had seemed to enjoy—

Peter looked at Wade out of the corner of his eye. He remembered seeing his name on Wade’s free pass list, but he’d assumed it was a joke. All of the entries had been pretty out there after all.

Still.

It was something to think about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update, guys. The move has been crazier than I expected--and I may or may not have written nearly 12K of Superbat for the superbatbigbang in the meantime--but hopefully, I'm back to regular-ish updates.


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